


Sick Day

by alyxpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1st person pov, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A little bit of fluff for my friend lobstergirl who is feeling under the weather. She told me to post it so you could all read it :D My very first 'first person' piece.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lobstergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/gifts).



> A little bit of fluff for my friend lobstergirl who is feeling under the weather. She told me to post it so you could all read it :D My very first 'first person' piece.

“Sherlock, will you just _go home_.” I say as I scratch at the whiskers on my chin a little harder than I had intended. My watch told me fifteen minutes ago that it was half-past a monkey’s arse o’clock and I’ve had about enough. The arrogant bastard looks at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted a second head.

“But John’s not home,” Sherlock mumbles to me as he turns on the spot so that ridiculous coat spins out around him. I can’t stop myself from looking. It really is an effective move and after all, I am only human.

And John took an emergency shift over at Bart’s A&E about three-quarters into this case, oh, about what? three million hours ago. I don’t know at this point because I do believe my entire bloodstream has been replaced by caffeine from all the vile coffee Donovan has been bringing me all day. So, yeah, I think I’m safe.

“Lestrade.”

Well, mostly anyway. The consulting git is now narrowing his eyes at me.

“Give it up, _laddie_ ,” I growl, meeting him halfway. “You may have looks but you spoil it with your mouth and I don’t have John’s unending reserves of patience.” Hardly. _Emergency shift_ my arse. Granted, the case had been a horrible slog, both physically and emotionally, but now it is solved and I am exhausted.

Of course the consulting baby now goes into _I’m going to deduce the hell out of you_ mode. I hold up one hand to stem the tantrummy tirade before it even begins. I can’t take anymore right now.

And that is the only reason I’ll ever give for allowing myself to turn him loose on the child abusing kidnapper from today.

Yep.

“No, Sherlock, not now. _Go home_.” All this time and the idiot still can’t tell when I have had enough?

After a minute where he’s either studying my nose hairs or the way my tie is knotted or what the hell ever…he finally gets that orgasmic expression of epiphany on his face and I can think is _shit,_ now _what?_

Then the prick laughs at me: “You’ll see when you get home.”

I shake my head and stand up to grab my coat. Spring is just Mother Nature’s way of showing that she can be more indecisive as ever and it is freezing out there at this time of night.

Somehow that reminds me of my ex-wife.

I start out the door only to be blocked by six feet nothing of lean irritation. “What?” I ask, finally exasperated.

He smirks at me and somehow manages to mumble something that sounds like chicken soup and spins around on his heels dramatically at the same time. I can actually hear my eyeballs rolling in my skull.

Thing is, I love the arrogant prick like a son; he knows it, too. It’s been a wild ride since he first appeared on one of my earliest crime scenes. I will always stand by the words I said to that forlorn force-retired solider all those years ago. Sometimes I want to hug John and other times all I can think is _poor sod_.

Sherlock fiddles with his hair and the titanium band on his finger catches the light from the ceiling before he finally turns and flounces off down the corridor. At least at this hour, Dimmock has gone home, too. For all I care, he can go hang out down in the file room with some cold cases. As long as I can just get out of here for a few hours.

I slide into my car and my mobile jangles its new text alert. It is a text from Mrs. Hudson telling me she has something for me to pick up before I go home. Does that woman ever sleep? Probably not, not with the genius and his experiments upstairs, of course now…I shake off that thought. Someone really ought to give her a medal. Or a sainthood. Whichever. That’s a good idea, though, need to talk to…

The phone is insistent tonight. I send back an answer to her text and then throw the thing into the passenger seat. The parking garage is virtually empty so it takes no time at all to get to the road. I fight a yawn and put my foot down.

It turns out that Mrs. Hudson has somehow magically produced an enormous crock of homemade chicken soup at this time of night, even though she still looks half asleep with her pink nightie poking through the worn lace of the collar of her dressing gown. I give her my best _nice coppe_ r smile and she cuffs me on the arm then hugs me warmly. If I’m the paternal babysitter of Sherlock then she is most definitely the maternal one, though I have always felt there is more to that lady than meets the eye.

I thank her and head back out, totally not missing the shaggy head of curls at the top of the steps. _How the hell did he get here that quickly_?

Some things are better left unknown and they all involve people named Holmes.

 

I finally get home and go in through the side door so I can leave my filthy footwear in the mudroom. I hang up my coat and grab the crock of soup that is still wonderfully warm against my hands that have been so cold all day. It really smells delicious.

I wander into the kitchen, stopping to note that there is a fire burning in the lounge. I set the crock on the table and wash my hands before carrying two bowls, two spoons and a ladle to the table. On the bench is a fresh loaf of crusty bread; in the fridge is a spread I made consisting of garlic, butter and other spices. It will go perfectly with the soup, but first I need to know for sure if I’m dining alone or not, so I go into the sitting room where I am greeted with a pathetic sight.

Mycroft Holmes in all his glory is stretched out on the brown leather sofa. His auburn hair is messy, his pajamas are wrinkled and his nose is red. As I enter the room, he gives me a weak smile that ends in a wet cough.

I do believe England is going to fall.

Mycroft Holmes is sick.

Suddenly, it dawns on me. Baby Holmes knew it and instead of telling me, woke up his not-landlady and sent me over there to get the soup. I’m not sure if that means he thinks I’m incapable of looking after a sick person or if it was meant to be a kind gesture towards me and or his brother.

Have to ask John, he speaks fluent Sherlockese.

In the meantime, Mycroft looks terrible. “Fever?” I ask.

“A little bit. John stopped by a bit ago and left me some medication. It will be down a bit in…in a while.”

My god. He really is sick. I kneel down beside the couch and place the back of my hand on his head. “You do know you just used the same word in three separate sentences.”

He doesn’t answer but gives me a scowl that looks so much like his brother’s from earlier that I can’t help but laugh. Of course, I could also blame it on exhaustion. A few years ago, I would have, to, you know, save my skin or something. Not now, though. Apparently once Mycroft lets you behind his suit of armor, the man can be a freakin' kitty cat; albeit a big, tiger-colored one with huge teeth...but I need to listen, because I think my poor kitty is speaking. 

“Don’t worry, we have the next three days off.” Mycroft mutters into the tissue he is holding up to his nose.

I just sigh. I lost that battle two years ago.

I give him a kiss on the forehead and head back out to the kitchen to find the television trays I know he abhors. Might as well take advantage of this head cold! I snicker.

“Gregory, I’ll come in…”

I stop in my tracks and turn around to push his posh arse right back onto the couch.

“Nope. If you are so sick that _John_ came to see you then you can park it right there, mister.” Underneath my hand, I can feel the way he is trembling slightly. He looks up at me (and isn’t that a rare occasion) and his blue eyes are glassy. “Yep. Food then bed.”

Mycroft nods.

I finally gather everything up and it takes me no time before I have the soup dished up, a couple chunks of the bread slathered with the garlic spread and a beer for myself, plus a glass of water for Mycroft.

A glass of water that Mycroft is eyeballing like he has never seen it before. Good Lord. Save me from the ominous glares of Holmeses and grant me the serenity…oh hell.

Mycroft picks up the glass and is staring at the ice bobbing about.

“Just drink it.” I grumble as a click ‘play’ on the Blu-Ray remote. _Star Wars_ begins and I sit back enough to enjoy the surround sound.

Mycroft is still staring at the glass. You’ve got to be kidding me. I reach over and take it away from him, sloshing a bit of the cold water on his hand. He looks over at me, puzzled. This is worse than I thought.

Before I can say anything, he swings his attention to the television. “This isn’t the one with that bloody creature with the speech impediment is it?”

I laugh. “That is the funniest thing that I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”

He scowls at me. Maybe I shouldn’t laugh. Really, though, how often do I get the chance? I don’t say anything else and he finally turns toward his soup. After two bites, he sits back against the couch and pulls his legs up. I sigh and do the manly thing in order to finally get some food into my system: I upturn the bowl and drink the remainder of my soup, which to my credit, really isn’t all that much. 

Mycroft stares at me some more. “You are dazzling.”

What? I have a feeling the slurping noise was probably uncalled for, but it is time I get some of my own in return. I push my tray out of the way and drain the beer, then push his tray back and turn off the television.

“Bed time,” I say and pull him up by the arms. He comes right along as I lead him to the bedroom and install him between the covers, first removing his maroon slippers. I give him a short impromptu foot massage and he sighs then curls onto his side. I promised him a long time ago that I would never call what he is doing to that pillow _cuddling_.

But seriously, _it is_. 

Mycroft’s eyes slip closed, his face goes slack and he is somewhere in dreamland signing multiple copies of whatever classified documents you would need in dreamland. I have a feeling there must be a lot of them.

I move into the bathroom and take a quick shower after getting a whiff of myself. It’s a wonder Mycroft didn’t gag. Good thing his sinuses are all blocked. I reenter the bedroom and look at the bureau. Pyjamas? Forget it. Too tired.

I watch Mycroft for a few moments and find myself completely besotted by his little sleepy snuffles. When I realize I’m watching the British Government whimper and kick like a puppy I rush out into the corridor and back down to the sitting room for my mobile. The cooler air reminds me that I’m still starkers so I make my text message quick.

_What did you give him?_

I can almost hear Sherlock’s annoyance  in the seconds it takes him to fire back an answer; that man cracks me up, arrogant thing running about London texting like a teenager.

Ping!

_John says pseudoephedrine. Leave us alone, we are busy._

I snort and consider sending a volley of messages into cyberspace just to interrupt them, but the thought of what they are doing and that poor, sweet Mrs. Hudson downstairs sleeping makes me stop. After all, the chicken soup was delicious.

I bank the fire, close the grill and finally drag my sorry carcass to bed. I’ll deal with the mess later; since I put the crock in the fridge earlier, there’s no good reason to go back in the kitchen. I may not be at the Yard for the next three days, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be at someone’s beck and call, I think as I curl up behind Mycroft. The trembling in his extremities slowly lessens and he pushes up against me.

Yeah, that beck and call stuff? It’s all worth it.


	2. Cowboy Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Lobstergirl, I thought I'd leave this right here. Since, well, you know ;)

The cowboy is practically shirtless except for an oxblood leather vest; it showcases tanned skin glossy from a sheen of sweat. One strong hand tightly grasps the rope cinch around the huge bull’s body. The animal jumps, bucks and spins but the cowboy stays on. On one buck, the cowboy loses his white hat revealing a thick crop of silver hair. Taut thighs grip the beast’s black back, muscles tightening and releasing beneath the indigo denim as the animal does its best to throw its rider. The audience alternately cheers and catcalls, egging on both of the contenders.

The clock counts down, but time is frozen. The arena’s spotlight glances off the silver buttons on the cowboy’s vest, tiny winking lights as beast and man work together. As if through clear gelatin, the bull twists its neck and throws its head up, bawling madly; rear hooves flying off the ground. The muscles in the cowboy’s arm tighten and he gnashes his teeth against the dull jolt of pain up his spine. The bull jumps again and this time the cowboy lets fly with his spurs, polished silver rowels that seem to glow in contrast against his black leather boots. The crowd screams and hollers their ecstasy.

The clock starts again, this time he’s got two seconds left of the eight he needs to get his points. The bull’s flanks are heaving now and it bellows its rage. The cowboy relaxes his torso, lets his pelvis align with the movements of the bovine and looks to all the world like he’s fucking it into submission. Sweat flies from his forehead as he holds his left arm high. The audience cheers and claps. Someone throws rose petals into the air.

A rivulet of sweat makes a track in the brown dust sticking to him, running from the nape of his neck down, down until it disappears under the open neck of his leather vest. The clock runs out and all movement in the arena just…

Stops.

The cowboy dismounts as easily as if he were riding a ranch horse. The ring, the crowd, the bull: everything disappears in a hazy smoke. He stops in the center of the arena and peels off his vest. His broad, muscular chest is slick with sweat; dirt covers him from toes to forehead. When he smiles, white teeth flash and his blue eyes sparkle with mischief. He unbuckles his thick brown chaps and they hit the ground with a _clink_. He steps out of them and kicks them aside.

The cowboy pulls on the big silver belt buckle at his waist then, with a yank, pulls his leather belt out of the belt loops on his jeans. In the air, it arcs in a perfect curve and the _snap_ of the leather hitting against itself is the only sound that can be heard. The cowboy licks his lips and lowers his zipper without looking at what he is doing. The loose denim hangs on his hips now, showcasing a trim, dark happy trail that starts above his navel.

The cowboy skates one palm down his chest, allowing his fingers to linger over the six pack of his abdomen then barely dips his fingers below the waist of his jeans. He closes his eyes and drops his head back, just for an instant and seems as if he’s going to drop to his knees in the dirt right there. Only the imagination can consider exactly what he’s got his hand wrapped around.

In the space of a single heartbeat, however, the cowboy lets go of himself and retrieves his hat as it mysteriously reappears at his feet. He places it on his head and tips the rim, a most mischievous expression lighting up his face. He drops backward, landing not on the hard-packed dirt of the ground, but in a black leather chair. Smiling again, he takes off his boots and socks, tossing them down and kicking up tiny puffs of dust. He stretches his legs and rolls his shoulders. The spotlight brightens.

The cowboy gets out of the chair and walks a few steps closer. His eyes are glittering blue flames now. He bites his bottom lip as he reaches into his jeans. His arm moves once, twice, as he no doubt strokes himself. He holds both hands up in the air and his jeans drop.

Bare feet spread wide lead to muscular calves. Strong knees, taught, straining thighs and the end of that happy trail that does not disappoint. Flushed red balls covered in a carpet of neatly trimmed dark hair. Long, thick cock standing at attention proudly, a single bead of precome wetting the tip. The cowboy grasps the base of it and this time does drop to his knees, legs spread wide. He strokes himself, eyes straight ahead as if staring into a camera. With his thumb, he teases his slit until his engorged prick is practically weeping. His balls begin to tighten and the cowboy pants, arching his back in order to fuck into his own fist. His hat falls to the ground, forgotten again.

With lips reddened from biting them, the cowboy moans loudly, the sound echoing from every corner of the now empty arena. His hand begins to move faster, hips pumping harder; his breathing broken and strained.

“Oh God!” The cowboy groans. His pelvis is jerking now, hand moving so fast as to be blurry. Finally, he can’t stave it off any longer and he throws his head back and screams towards the sky…

 

I wake up with a shout, sitting up fast and slamming my back against the headboard of the bed. I have a feeling I’m panting like a mongrel. Next to me, Gregory rolls over the side of the mattress and lands on his feet, hands going for the gun hidden in the nightstand. Sometimes I try to tell myself I feel unscrupulous about the fact that it is there.

Then I don’t.

“Wha the hell?” he mumbles as he points the pistol towards the doorway of our bedroom.

“Gregory,” I say blandly, pulling his attention to me.

Gregory, looking abashed, takes quick stock of the situation and returns the gun to its hiding place. He turns back to me, strong hands on his wonderful hips. “You okay?”

I nod and wipe sweat off my forehead, “I believe the fever has broken.”

Gregory nods silently, then takes a closer look. My face is flush and I have a suspicion that he can read clearly the results of my dream in my expression.

“The cowboy dream again?” he asks, getting back into the bed next to me and pressing his shoulder into mine. I think we make an interesting contrast: silk pajamas and bare skin. His bare skin, anyway. Mine isn’t worth contemplating.

I can see the instant that it dawns on him. It is delicious.

I must be feeling better.

My silver fox’s eyes blue shine in the dim light pouring through the window that he never bothered to close before climbing into bed next to me. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me close to him. He leans in to kiss me and I stop him with a hand to his chest.

“Hold that thought?” I ask.

“Sure,” he grins at me crookedly.

I head to the loo where I scrub my teeth. I’m feeling reckless and aroused, so I skip the flossing.

For now.

When I step back into the bedroom, he is reclined on the bed, one hand over his erection and the other relaxed at his side.

Oh Gregory.

Quickly, I scan my memory to see if I’ve ever described my dream to him. Apparently I have. That is _mine_ , and he is spectacular. He needs a hat. I make a mental note to find a pure white Stetson and having it shipped immediately as I sit down beside him. I want to touch, but I really don’t want to break the spell he’s pulling me under. With each stroke of his hand, I can feel my own member’s answering throb.

“Take off your kit,” he growls as he fondles himself.

I always feel a bit silly, but I do as he asks. It is really no hardship to drop my soiled clothing to the floor. A year ago, I would have folded them neatly. But that was before I had any idea of Gregory’s prowess.

“Come here,” he orders.

I oblige him. As soon as I try to scoot under the coverlet, however, he pounces on me. Simultaneously clutching the back of my head in one hand and my prick in the other, he puts me on my back. I moan against his lips and spread my legs.

“Good God, Mycroft,” he says as he runs his fingers behind my bollocks. Even I can feel the heat coming from me. Utter desire. I want to be _taken_ by this man.

“Tell me what the sexy cowboy did this time,” Gregory coaxes as he laps at my neck and then my collar bones.

Where to begin? Ah, I know. “He was thrusting against the bull as it bucked, Gregory.” I tell him.

He takes in a deep breath, huffing and licking against my chest now. He steers clear of my nipples, as I hate that odd sensation. His lips and tongue move against my ribs then across my stomach.

“Ah!” I say. Surely that sounds ridiculous.

Gregory growls then hums against my skin. Apparently it doesn’t sound as ridiculous as I thought. He begins to finger me lightly and I can no longer control the sounds that come out of my mouth. Perhaps it is the medicine from earlier.

“I want you,” I gasp as he hits _that_ spot.

“I know,” he says, two fingers working me now. I fight the urge to throw my head back and scream, it is so intense.

He leans over me again, lips reaching for my own. I grasp his buttocks and pull him toward me, gaining a bit of friction for my now aching prick. Nothing in this universe can ever compare to the way his body hair feels against my skin.

I can say that from experience.

Gregory’s tongue is waging a personal battle with my own, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him win. I catch it between my lips and suck then wrap my legs around his waist. He thrusts against me a couple of times then regroups.

Three fingers and oh God, the Queen and everything. This time I really do let out some sort of sound before I can stop it. Then he is gone, pulling my hips towards him as he lines himself up. When the very tip of his prick breaches me I come very close to getting off right then.

“Shhh…” Gregory mumbles against my neck. He strokes my chest, my abdomen, my thighs. “You are so tense.”

I am always tense, but you can take that away, dear Gregory.

He takes his time, no doubt relishing in the drag of skin-on-skin. It threatens to drive me out of my mind. Kissing me again, taking control of everything, he thrusts: first slow, then hard, then slow, then hard and….

 _Fuck me into submission_.

 

Truly, I have no way of knowing whether I actually spouted that aloud. However, the way Gregory is splayed out against me, satiated, gives me the impression that I probably did. And at our age, too.

I move slowly to draw the coverlet over us and close my eyes. I may not sleep any more tonight, but I take comfort in the knowledge that not only is he here beside me, he is _with_ me in many other ways. I rest my hands on his broad shoulders and he sighs, his soft breath against my chest. I cup the nape of his neck in one hand and remind myself how lucky I truly am.


End file.
